Saturday afternoon in Little Portugal

It’s 27 degrees outside under the clouded sun
And happily, despite the threat of rain,
We have
— Without the forced air
— Without the drying element
Heat.

It’s been rising since morning and
Wriggling like Casper into the thick of things.

There a slim white beam crosses the backs of a little jazz trio
Whose steady purrs stroke the black ceiling beams high above
The twenty heads in the room, and above the worn hardwood floor.

All unsteady, a few framed beats sway in the doorway before slipping through the tall window
And beyond its open panes, at once colliding with passersby who, after the initial assault, relax,
Remember how to breathe, and immediately sigh!

There’s no more room inside that cozy Commy’s D.,
Just enough for the whirling white ceiling fans
And those others, cupping their drinks at the bar,
Or two feet away in chairs, relaxing and munching
Happily on tapas in the heart of Little Portugal.